Afternoon light slants across the yellow wooden floor. A gray tabby lies on its side with one cheek pressed to the floor, and one front paw stretches all the way to the edge of the boards, the pads underneath fully exposed. Light rests thinly on the closed eyelids, and the tips of the whiskers float faintly in the air.
Looking at the photo, the shoulders drop a little. The tension held in the jaw lets go, and a drawn breath stays a bit longer than usual before leaving. The eyes aimed at the screen loosen their focus too, and blur somewhere around the yellow of the wood grain.
A cat does not try to do anything well when it falls asleep. The thought that one ought to rest properly sometimes gets in the way of resting, and that body on the floor is close to a state where the thought has been let go of entirely.
Lean a little to one side where you are, pull the knees slightly toward the belly, and curl the back. One arm could be left hanging loosely, like that front paw. Three minutes is enough.
The same three minutes open up at the evening dishes as well. While standing and rinsing the bowls, it is enough to notice only that the belly swelling forward and falling back moves apart from the rhythm of the wrists. Like the floor the sunlight has moved off, the kitchen window has gone dark at some point. Without counting how many times the belly rose and fell, it would be fine to leave it at noticing, between the sounds of the water, whether that rise and fall is shallow or deep.
The light will move on soon, and the cat probably will not wake even then.
